


In the Still of the Night

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he's restless, Chris looks for a helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Still of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> well. um. this is where my mind goes when I get stressed out from work. yes, I write this at work. don't you wish you had my job? (no, you don't.) anyway, it's a PWP.

Chris lies awake in his bunk, feeling restless. He's been on the phone with Dani for a couple of hours, working out some details with the new Fuman line, and his mind is still going a mile a minute despite the fact that he really wants to sleep, his body is craving the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness. He tucks the cellphone into a bag hung from the wall, then leans out of the bunk, hanging his head down to see if Joey, in the bunk below his, is awake. The curtains are parted a little, and it's dark within, but he can hear Joey's voice soft and steady; he must be on the phone.

"Joey," Chris hisses, just to confirm his suspicions.

A pair of balled-up socks fly out from within the bunk and peg Chris square on the forehead. Oh, good; Joey's awake. "Joey," he whispers again.

"I'm on the phone, dammit--" Joey says. "No, Shelly, sorry. What?"

"Joey," Chris singsongs softly. "Joey, baby, don't get--"

"Hang on a second," he hears Joey say, and then Joey leans out of his bunk, looking up at Chris. "Fuckwit, shut up. I'm talking to Shel."

"I need to relax," Chris says, pouting, though he does feel a little guilt because Shelly is an old high-school friend of Joey's, and he doesn't get to talk to her that much. Still, Chris is tired, and he wants Joey's attention however he can get it. He hopes the pout looks decent, since his head is starting to spin from all the blood pouring into it.

Joey rolls his eyes, then waves him down, saying, "all right, come on already," and Chris grins, swings his legs out, dropping neatly into Joey's bunk. "You have to be totally quiet," Joey informs him. "One noise and you go back." He's pulling back the covers, revealing an expanse of bare, hairy chest and a pair of smiley-face Joe Boxer shorts. Chris tucks himself into the space provided, laying on his back beside Joey, smiling.

"Quiet, gotcha," he says, twinkling a smile when Joe frowns at him before un-muting the cellphone.

"Yeah," Joey says into the phone. "Sorry about that. Minor crisis. No, we can keep talking, it's cool."

Chris reaches back, stretching a little to let his t-shirt ride up, allowing a strip of soft stomach to appear below the hem, a hopeful invitation. Joe puts an absent hand there, big palm warm, stroking softly. The words Joey speaks into the phone begin to run together; Chris ignores the content, listening instead to the soft, mellow rumble of Joey's voice, the purring sweetness, while Joey's hand moves slow and steady over Chris's belly.

He can feel an awakening of a different sort beginning to stir in him, little flutters of warmth settling into his groin as Joey's hand tickles the soft hairs that trail down to disappear below his waistband; he knows Joey notices it when a dark eyebrow arches sardonically at him. Chris gives Joey the most innocent smile in his repertoire; Joe sighs a little into the phone, smiling, and Chris knows that he's going to get what he wants after all. He always gets what he wants.

Joey takes his hand away for a moment, puts a finger to his mouth in a reminding gesture. Chris nods, and Joey pulls at the hem of Chris's shirt. Quick and whisper-quiet, Chris tugs the shirt off, careful in the small confines of the bunk, and tosses it out to the floor. When Joey's hand yanks gently at the boxers, Chris takes those off as well, then allows Joey to roll him onto his side, facing out towards the curtains and away from Joey.

Pressed back along Joey's heated skin, his ass nestled into cotton and a hard curve of dick that nothing can conceal, Chris fights down a whimper of excitement. Joey leans over his shoulder to nibble at his ear and whisper in a bare, breathy voice, "Remember, not one sound." Chris nods, bites his lip when Joey's tongue licks into his ear, making a wet trail down his neck to a bare shoulderblade, heat trapped under the covers. Then Joey resumes his conversation, his tone of voice startlingly normal, even animated.

"Really? You know, I thought he would have been in jail by now. That's great," Joey says into the phone. His hand slides over Chris's side, skates across the smooth curve of belly and up to tug at a stiff nipple. Chris fists his hand and bites hard on a knuckle. Joey's fingers move, twisting, rubbing, tweaking thrills of sensation with every movement; then the tormenting hand slips away, and Chris only barely manages to suppress a whimper at the sudden loss of contact.

Behind him, Joey shifts, getting more comfortable. He's laying on his side as well, the cellphone in his left hand, supported by the arm which also props his head up. Chris gives a little wince at the probable uncomfortableness of the pose. The hand returns, then, finding his other nipple and shamelessly manipulating it with burning fingers. Chris bites his knuckle again. Fuck, he wants to moan, wants to make noise to tell Joey how turned on he is. Then again, Joey's probably well aware of it, he thinks wryly. Joey's certainly turned on; that dick against his ass just kept getting hotter every second, and his body is giving off more heat than the sun.

Joey's hand eases up, fingertips moving lightly over Chris's heated skin, tracing smooth patterns, barely touching, over his chest, down to his stomach, across his ribcage - that almost makes him bust out laughing, when they slip teasingly over his side - and then to his back, and Chris rolls forward a little to let Joey touch him, fingertips dancing over his shoulderblades, collarbone, up his neck into his hairline, down his spine, over his ass, rubbing into the cleft -- Chris stuffs another knuckle into his mouth, fighting for control.

The hand disappears again. _He's trying to kill me_ , Chris thinks dazedly. _Death by sexual torment_. It's working, too; he's impossibly stiff, hard as a rock, throbbing and pressed into the sheet, and he thinks he might get off just from the friction of the thin cotton on his aching dick. Then Joey's hand pulls at his hip, rolling him back to his side, and he feels the hot fingers slide down his thigh to cup his balls -- _fuck_ \-- before smoothing up, wrapping his erection in heat, a steady slide over scorched flesh, and a noise climbs into Chris's throat; he keeps himself quiet only by dint of sheer will. It's fucking nasty the way Joey's doing this almost casually, like he's not really even paying attention to what his hand, his evil hand, is doing.

The whole time, Joey's voice continues in the conversation; but Chris notices that he's starting to lose his concentration. His responses are mellowing into "yeah"s and "uh-huh"s, and he grunts some of his answers in a voice pitched lower than usual. At one point, Shelly must ask him if he's all right, because he says, in a slightly strangled tone, "no, I'm fine," and Chris has to fight laughter again. Then Joey's hand squeezes the base of his cock, making all conscious thought fly out of his head.

Chris thinks he's going to die when Joey removes his hand again. He's close, his breathing labored despite his best attempts to keep it quiet. He heaves a cautious breath, waiting for the next torturously delightful touch, blinking in confusion when it doesn't immediately come again. He can hear Joey doing something, though, fumbling in a hanging pocket or something even as he carries on telling Shelly an anecdote about a fan gone hysterical at a soundcheck party the other day.

Abruptly, Joey's hand slips between his thighs again, but from behind this time -- slick now, pressing without preamble, finding the way into Chris's body with easy instinct. Chris grabs at the edge of the mattress, fingers scrabbling across the sheet, his eyes shut, everything focused on the slick fingers pushing into him, opening him, striking the spot, finding it and sending shards of light into bursts behind his eyes. He wants to beg Joey to just fuck him, but somehow not being able to is even more erotic, makes it all the more powerful when Joey's fingers slide out of him; the rustle of material being pushed down barely audible, something else -- a ripping noise? Condom wrapper, then -- and then the hot dick is pressed hard against him for a moment, and then pushes in.

Pushing fucking _into_ him. It takes all Chris has to suppress the moan this time; stuffing a corner of pillow into his mouth, he bites the material as Joey's cock fills him, moving deep, trembling and hot and _oh yes right there_ he wants to cry out. He wants to cry, it feels that fucking good, even the pain of the entry stinging and delightful as it fades. Joey's hand presses firm into his hip, holding him in place, as he slips back a bit, then pushes himself home again in a swift thrust. _Fuck_ , yes, that's good, Joey's hips moving in slow obscene thrusts, exquisite needy movements grinding that hard dick deep into him, and Chris slips a hand down to his own erection, desperate now for release, wild and aching, wanting more than anything to come with Joey's stiff dick inside him.

Joey keeps the rhythm slow, though, despite Chris rotating himself back into the cradle of Joey's hips, trying to speed up the pace. Joey seems perfectly content, in fact, to just lay there and fuck Chris slowly, somehow still carrying the thread of his conversation with Shelly, and it's so lewd, how he can keep his head with his dick buried in Chris's ass is beyond Chris. Actually, Chris is getting damn tired of the conversation. He lets go of his own cock, reaches back and grabs Joey's ass, pulling that hard cock towards him. Joey chuckles low into the phone, and finally, _finally thank you sweet jesus_ , he tells Shelly that he has to go and he'll call her later. He thumbs the phone off, tosses it aside, and leans over, growling into Chris's ear.

"Impatient little asshole, aren't you?"

"About fucking time," Chris pants, as Joey pushes him over onto his stomach and bears down, all pretense of laziness gone. Free to cry out at last, Chris gives full voice to the ecstasy now, panting, moaning, and at last letting out a rough cry when Joey takes Chris's dick in hand and gives it three hard pumps, sending him screaming over the edge.

He feels Joey's release, the dick in his ass throbbing, while Joey, his chest hot and heavy atop Chris's back, gives a guttural groan into Chris's hair, panting hard. Pulling out carefully, he collapses to Chris's side, panting.

"Now I've got a fucking wet spot," he complains.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Chris says weakly.

"Get up," Joey says.

"Not moving." But he takes the slap Joey delivers to his ass with a good-natured grin, climbing out of the bunk to stand, weak-kneed, feeling loose and knowing he'll be hurting in the morning, so that Joey can get out and clean himself up. Then they climb up into Chris's bunk, giggling when JC calls out in a sleepy voice,

"Hey, guys, keep it down, I'm trying to sleep."

"We will," Chris says while Joey gathers him into warm, comfortable arms. He loves getting what he wants, and he can't think of a better way to relax after a long day.


End file.
